fold

I wash my hands, after
every time I pray. At least,
when I use my hands. Sometimes

it is only a clear bang-chime
light, a contracted glow pulled
into point, shot out to beam
aligned, with a focused
and dedicated whack
to the mind, to stream
aimed out and up, and up

to some far star

where heaven ain't. I know
the score
location-wise. You

might as well pray down.

God's everywhere, Australia
especially -

- with that infinite, gently
consternated frown, concern,
concern so free - God's got

good hands
for all your cares
so powerless you set them free.